The Night I Met Roy Buchanan

 

It was a damp evening in San Diego in that fateful month of December 1980. The murder of John Lennon only eight days earlier still left me stunned and morose. But this night we were going to try to see another guitar player. Roy Buchanan, who was virtually unknown to me, but was a guitar hero of my boyfriend at the time. The only hitch was that Roy was performing at a 21 and over club and I had only celebrated my 18th birthday six months earlier. We made the ol’ college try only to be turned away at the door. So, we decided to just hang around the parking lot area and try to see what we could see. In our exploration of the premises, we found our way to the alley behind the club. Down the alley I could see a small travel trailer. I could tell by the loud conversations that it was packed full of people. A few people were milling about outside the trailer in the alley. As I begin to nonchalantly walk up the alley towards the trailer my boyfriend was whispering emphatically for me to not go any closer. But it had become apparent to me that the guitar player that he is so infatuated with was sitting right there in the trailer at the little table, the kind of trailer table that drops down into a bed. There are mostly guys in the trailer, and maybe two or three women. I recognize Roy sitting at one side of the table. By now my boyfriend is practically trying to physically pull me away from the trailer entrance but I’ve already smiled and flirted my way up to the door way and stepped up and I say, “Roy, Your biggest fan wants to meet you.” And I pull my boyfriend into the trailer.

 

Roy smiled and immediately made us feel welcome. Like not only did we belong there but he was expecting to see us, that kind of welcome. He asked us if we had tickets for the show and that’s when we told him of my age problem. He started asking about us, how we met, where we were from and telling us about his personal life, his wife and family. He showed us pictures in his wallet. We discovered that he and I both hailed from the great state of Virginia. He then devised a plan to tell the management of the club that I was his long lost cousin from back home and that he wanted me to be allowed in in spite of the age problem. But the club would not relent. He did, however, manage to get us a seat in the artist’s dressing area where if the door were cracked open we could see the stage from the wing. So, he did this for me after having just met us. After the show he invited us back to the trailer. And this is when I truly got to know Roy Buchanan.

 

He said he wanted some weed. We said we had some weed but we only had a little water bong, travel sized you might say, to smoke it in. Roy claimed he’d never smoked weed out of a bong before. So I may have that distinct honor but who can say…? Just some of the many things we talked about that night from two in the morning until four a.m. He said his favourite Jimi Hendrix song was Spanish Castle Magic. He told us many tales of the rock and roll world he traveled in. How the Rolling Stones had asked him to play in the band after Brian Jones died. How he had asked John Lennon to play in his band after The Beatles broke up, but of course John, wanted to do his own thing with Yoko. And then the damn burst and Roy sobbed over the loss of our mutual hero John Lennon. He was holding my hands in his hands across the table and we were commiserating on the dire state of the world where someone would take the life of such a peaceful soul. He said his strongest memory of meeting Lennon was how red his hair was and how short he was. We were all crying now. He asked us what other musicians we liked. Of course, I told him I loved Jeff Beck and the Grateful Dead. That’s when Roy told us that Jeff Beck and Jerry Garcia were angels sent to earth to protect him. This he told us in the most clear-eyed manner you could imagine. He made us believe it by the strength of his belief.

 

By now most of the band has left the club and the little trailer party and headed back to the hotel. When one of the band tries to get Roy to go with them Roy tells them that he is going to stay with his new friends (meaning us) and we agreed to get him to the proper hotel by daybreak. And we continued to drink (non-alcoholic, of course, wink, wink) and smoke (medicinal only, ahem…) into the wee hours of the morning. It was then that Roy told us the strangest tale about how he’d gotten the inspiration for his latest album My Babe, how he’d lost all his money and caught pneumonia after being put in jail and subsequently beat up by the cops and how the cops had tried but failed to stage a suicide attempt to cover up his death from their beating.

 

Cue the eerie silence….

 

Yes. That is exactly how Roy met his ultimate demise some eight years later, in a jail in his home state of Virginia. The cops claimed it was suicide. When my boyfriend, who had become my husband by that time, and I heard the news of his death and those details, we just looked at each other in stunned disbelief. How could he have predicted his death with such vivid accuracy?  I still don’t know what to think but I do have the journal entry of that night, and these are not just aged memories

 

That night after we had dropped Roy off at his hotel as promised, we discovered he’d left behind a guitar strap in our car. We considered keeping it as a souvenir of our night but as Roy had trusted us with his personal post office box address in Virginia, we decided it would be better karma to return it to him. Every time we saw him after that night he always remembered us.

 

The epilougue to this story occurred in 1995, when I got the chance to meet my hero, Jeff Beck backstage at the Concord Pavillion. After waiting patiently for hours, I finally got to speak to Jeff and I got to tell him my story about Roy and how Roy thought of Jeff and Jerry Garcia as angels. Ironically, this was just a few weeks after Jerry’s sad passing. So it caught Jeff’s attention and he seemed happy to hear that Roy thought of him in that way. 

 

And that is why I still call him my friend. I don’t think I will ever accept the facts surrounding his death, I do know that tragically a great musician, a husband and a father is no longer with us. Fortunately, we have some great recordings and video to stir our memories of a kind and special friend he was to us that night and how we grieved together and spoke of many wonderful and mysterious things. A night I won’t ever forget.

 

 

If I've learned anything about myself in the past year it is that I know deep within that I am strong enough to walk away from anything that does not serve my higher purpose and anyone that does not honor that innate wisdom.

SoulCollage® ~ Blessed Creatrix

SoulCollage ® is a creative and satisfying collage process. You make your own deck of cards - each collage card representing one aspect of your personality or Soul. Use the collage cards intuitively to answer life's questions and participate in self-discovery. Joyfully deepen your understanding of the relationships between your personality parts, you and your family/community/world, and you and your dreams, symbols, and Spirit. The book, SoulCollage^® Evolving, tells how to make and use the SoulCollage^® cards individually and in groups.

You can view some of my own SoulCollage® works here.

Palm Sunday in Palm Springs California

It was the kind of morning the desired a pot of tea rather than the usual cup. Cobalt ceramic teapot. Peppermint tea. Three bags. After fourteen days straight of harsh driving winds, sideways blow-in-your-face, show-no-mercy to your mail, your groceries, your trash, never mind your hair. Howling winds in the daytime a wind turbine at night. After fourteen days of that, the all-too-rare quiet morning descends upon this place like a heavenly calm. I wasn’t the only one to notice, not likely, not with that mockingbird serenading the Leo Moon at three a.m.

It woke me from a full and dreamy sleep. I listened for a moment to its charming chirping chatter. Thinking I must have slept until dawn, I glanced at my cell phone; 3:10. Really?

Is it a nightingale? It sure sounds like a mockingbird. I must be dreaming. I try to keep my brain cells from igniting.

      Chirp chirp chirp… bleedle bleedle bleedle… whoop chirp whoop chirp whoop whoop…      
      kneeddeep kneedeep kneedeep… reverb reverb reverb… tweet tweet...

It was no use. I get up just to make sure I’m not dreaming. I see no bird in the darkness, only a moon shining above the western hills as bright as the sun. Well, the bird’s just confused the moon for the sun, simple as that. But the longer it chirped and chirped the more convinced I became that today was going to be different.

And she continued to chirp until dawn, when I rose and looked out the window again. A tiny cottontail rabbit hopped about the empty field that my window looks out on. The mockingbird was perched atop the telephone pole. I knew it was her. I’d become intimately familiar with her vocalizations. There she was singing her little heart out. I grabbed the binoculars to get a better look. While holding the glasses up to my eyes a hummingbird whirred at my ear attracted, no doubt, to my shimmery purple shawl. A dove cooed in the shadows. Three crows cawed in the distance. A rooster crowed in a neighboring yard and then it dawned on me. It’s Palm Sunday, in Palm Springs!

It was going to be a glorious morning. I’ve learned not to tempt fate by assuming that a good morning will stretch into a good day. Those temperamental winds would rise up and roar without a moment’s notice. I brewed the tea, set a bowl of strawberries and Cheerios on the seldom-used patio table. I sped two bright yellow Oriels and a less bright plumed female. By the time I grabbed the camera they had hidden themselves but I managed to capture a few blurry shots. 

I set the teapot on the table and offered grace and gratitude. As I opened my eyes a hawk swooped down low with its wings fully out stretched right over my head, over the table and just over the rooftop. It was nothing short of magical.

And the mocking bird? She’s still singing her heart out.

Drama

Ascent Into Sky

            Standing at the gaping maw of a dry and desolate wasteland, I pause teetering between past and present. Behind me, the lush verdant landscape perfumed with breezes of cedar and pine, and the soft focus of salty sea air and misty fog. Where my soul was once nourished by the gentle sustenance of dear ones, beloved kith and kin, and my heart was light and carefree as an indolent butterfly in fragrant field of wildflower. A dread now set upon me of knowing what a fool I was to ever leave such a splendor and that awareness set a tonnage upon my feet so that I was weighted immobile in my sullen and dreary reminiscence.

            My companion touched me gently on the shoulder bringing me back to the task before us. I tore myself from that cherished landscape, the way one tears oneself from a warm and comfortable bed to face the cold light of dawn. Now I saw the blinding glare of a hot and caustic sun scorching a withered and barren terrain scattered with stones pale and dead like the bones of pre-historic beasts.

            “I am weary,” I say to my companion.

            He smiles indulgently, and allows me rest in the shade of a withered cottonwood tree. The parched, noxious air smelled of wet dog. We shared a less than refreshing drink from a too-warm canteen.

            Cruel and unforgivable it was to have caved into the circumstance that brought us here, proffering a blind trust in the unforeseen misrepresentations. Yet, knowing full well that little choice was in the offing.

            “It feels as if we’ve been abandoned in hell’s hottest half acre,” I bemoan.

            A momentary hope flares up within me as a dying  fire’s ember ignites a spark to fly, an unreasonable hope that we could just turn back, that my companion might allow himself to be persuaded, that we might spare ourselves the agony of this grief as if it were a bad dream. Yes, why not? Wasn’t it a thousand times more beautiful in the place we’d just left. How under appreciated it seemed to me now! Could he not see that I was more fragile than I’d thought, still clinging to my childlike awe and wonder and deserving of some small measure of happiness back in my cozy cottage, with its window box roses and lilac flower? How I longed to return and cease to play the hero and martyr! I would never complain again if I were allowed to return to that enchanted splendor.

            Already, I was growing faint from the triple-digit heat.

            “We’d better keep moving,” said my companion. “We’re likely to get a heat stroke if we hang around here much longer.”

            He stood and offered me his hand and gave a knowing smile; there was neither contempt nor sympathy in that smile, neither harshness nor compassion. There was nothing but an understanding, nothing but a shared knowledge. His smile said: “I know you. I know your fear and how you feel, and I have by no means forgotten the failed hopes and dreams we shared.” He could reach into my soul and into every rabbity ruse of cowardice and every feigned gratuitous daring to unearth a brighter side of such rugged desolation.

            For three days into this journey the near gale force winds had been blowing non-stop down from the stony mountain, whistling through the mostly abandoned dwellings that dotted the dreary landscape, scooping up sand and small pebble and pelting us with stinging bitterness. We fought against the mighty headwind like intrepid nomads. I hated him and loved him as one condemned loves and hates his executioner. More than anything else I hated and despised his stalwart leadership, his unfailing knowledge and ruthless conservatism and I hated everything in myself that rebelled against his rightness, the wish to be more like him, that unquestioningly followed him.

            My companion was now several yards ahead of me and was moving deeper into the desert and toward the distant mountains that lain ahead of us. His steadfast willingness, a duty bound certainty to reach the mountain before nightfall was the fuel that propelled him. I, on the other hand, was content to linger passively, noticing a scorpion slowly winding his way across the sand, or stooping to grasp and admire a rock with dazzling flecks of gold. The wind in my face forced me to tuck my head down and to lean into the wind with my shoulder.

            By the time we reached the foot of the mountain the crepuscular sunlight had faded and sunk below the horizon painting a flame work of color in the sky. In this faint light the ruddy mountain appeared somewhat less menacing but there was not a moment to spare as we traversed up a creviced ravine into the belly of the mountain to make a shelter for the night. By the time we found a shallow cave where we could fit our sleeping mats, darkness had overtaken us. My companion had the forethought to have gathered enough dry sticks and twigs to set us a small fire.

            Unloading our packs it became immediately apparent to me the fundamental differences in our respective preparations. My companion’s pack was loaded with supplies essential to staving our hunger and for the unforeseen emergencies that are part and parcel of such a journey as this through an unforgiving wilderness. My own was packed with sentimental trinkets, a photo of my children, an heirloom necklace passed to me from my late grandmother, little books and paper and pen. He shared his store of crackers and dried fruit with me and we prepared for sleep.

            The Milky Way winked at us through the cave opening and the quiet of the starry sky brought a sleepiness over us and we settled down speaking only what words were truly necessary. I passed the night in a restless dream filled sleep fighting off the fears of such an unfamiliar and disconsolate sojourn. I dreamed that a kaleidoscope of bright blue butterflies encircled and covered my head and lifted me into the night sky. I flew higher and higher into the sky and felt as light and carefree as a bird and I was able to see the full scope of the path behind us and before us and just as I came crashing to the ground I came awake.

           

            I woke to the rustling sounds of my companion packing. The winds had died down in the pre-dawn hours and in its place were large cumulous clouds heavy and dark. A rumble in the distance gave a foreboding to my companion and I. As I quickly packed up my sleeping mat, the pitter pat of raindrops began to fall upon the mountain and the dusty trail.

            “We need to get to higher ground,” he said flatly.

            Quickly we scurried further up the ravine stumbling in our haste. Lightning split the distant sky and a clap of thunder shook the ground. Just then the dark sky cracked open and fat raindrops began to fall. Within moments the path before us was muddied and our footing was made even more irksome. 

            “Stop!” I shouted, so full of fear and frustration that I wondered if this was yet another dream and if it were a dream then I should wake myself with my shouts. “Stop!” I bellowed. “I cannot do this. I cannot go on.”

            My companion stopped and looked at me with an all-knowing glance from his rain soaked face.

            “Would you rather we turn back?” he asked, and before he had finished speaking I knew full well that I could not say the word that I so desperately longed to say. “Yes, say yes, say it,” my whole being begged of me. But logic and responsibility held me fast like a leaden weight.

            “I will. I will, I will!” my companion gave retort to my silence, in his first display of emotion since beginning this journey.

            Knowing how far we had come, the treacherous journey that had brought us this far and the wide abyss of time and distance behind us convinced me that to return was impossible and I said nothing and continued to take up the journey. My companion sensed my silent acquiescence and turned on his heels leaving me to follow behind.

            For over an hour the rain fell in buckets and then just as suddenly as it began it ceased. Rivulets and streams flowed past us carrying the newly fallen rain down the face of the mountain. Tiny purple flowers seemed to awaken in its path. Little puddles of fresh water pooled in the hollows of the rock. We stopped to refill the canteen. Staring into the water’s reflection I could see my face. Gone was the gentle hope and carefree demeanor of a youthful countenance and replaced with the deep lines of loss and longing and dark eyes swollen wet with tears. I hardly recognized it.

            Just then a hummingbird hovered directly in front of me. It seemed to extol a message of endurance in its steady humming. Levitating its iridescent body with the ease of  its flight, it glistened and shone in the sunlight with a dancing metaphor of my own resignation.  “I must continue. I must survive,” was the lesson I took from this holy messenger before it darted away and upward toward a tuft of desert sage wedged within the crevices of the mountain.

            Now the climbing was easier and our pace quickened somewhat. A newfound brightness increased within me and the rocky path smoothed out before us. The blue sky reappeared and with it the mid-day heat. I tried to exert my will more intently as the passage became more passable. At times like this I kept pace more easily  with that of my companion over long stretches. Or perhaps the heat served to slow his efforts. We continued together now in a mutuality of purpose.

            Upward we climbed past Barrel Cactus and Beavertail Cactus and Crucifixion Thorn Bush.  Up the steep and rocky slopes we continued arduously climbing higher and higher with parched lips and glistening, furrowed brows. Along narrow and perilous, tremulous cliffs we continued our ascent until, at last, the zenith was within view. And upon the summit there grew from out of the stony abutment a strange and lonely Desert Willow. Sturdy and squat with many strong branches it reached up unyieldingly between heaven and earth. And among the branches perched a large, black crow. With its shiny black crystal eye looking questioningly at us as though we’d crept into his domain like thieves. And we all conferred with one another in silent acknowledgment until the big black bird began to caw a frightful call. Hardest to bear was its steady gaze into the very depths of our souls. Continuing to caw, caw its harsh call that seemed mock our insignificance. And within that calling I seemed to hear it say ‘you don’t belong here’. All at once I realized the purpose of this perilous journey, the very realization of this purposeless hardship. I don’t belong here. I belong nowhere and yet everywhere. And suddenly the crow with one fluid motion lifted up from the branch and spread his wide black wings and soared heavenward, circled and then disappeared into the burnished sun. And then, just as suddenly, my companion looked into that bright sun and leapt from the summit and into the silent sky.

(c) 2012